A Dark Path #3
I pull out the pad of paper and get a description of the missing boy. Kevin Dennison is four feet, six inches tall. Eighty pounds. Wearing a camo jacket, blue jeans, a Cincinnati Reds ball cap, and high-top sneakers. “Do you have a photo of your son?” I ask.
Monica digs into her purse. “Right here. It’s his school picture.” Her hand shakes when she passes it to me. “It was taken last month.”
I glance at the photo as I walk it over to Mona.
Skinny kid with short brown hair. Hazel eyes.
Freckles. A lopsided grin that reveals a mouthful of braces.
I pass it to Mona. “Get this out to everyone. Sheriff’s office, too.
Call Glock and T.J.,” I say, using the nicknames of two other officers, “tell them to meet me at the covered bridge.”
“Got it.”
I turn back to the couple. Something about their reaction to their son’s friendship with an Amish boy has me wondering if this could be a runaway situation. “Any problems with Kevin recently?” I ask. “Any arguments? Has he gotten into any trouble? Anything like that?”
Jeff Dennison’s brows lower. “Look, Chief Burkholder, Kevin is a good kid. We don’t have any problems with him, so let’s keep it simple. He went fishing and he didn’t come home.”
“All right.” I cross to the coat tree next to the door, grab my jacket. “Kevin’s not answering his cell?”
“I’ve been trying every five minutes,” Monica says.
“Straight to voicemail?” I ask as I slip into my jacket. “Or does it ring first and then go to voicemail?”
“Rings and goes to voicemail.”
Which likely means he didn’t turn it off. “Keep trying him,” I tell her.
I look at Mona. “I’m going to talk to the Kuhns family and then head out to the covered bridge.”
“Roger that.”
“I’m going with you,” Jeff announces.
I turn to him. “Does Kevin have any other friends he might’ve gone to see?” I ask. “Maybe he lost track of time?”
The couple look at each other. “The Jamison boy,” he mutters. “They played football together.”
“And the boy down the street,” Monica adds.
“Check with them first.” Reaching into my jacket pocket, I make eye contact with Monica and pass her my card. “My cell number is on the back. If you think of anything else that might be helpful, call me. I’ll be in touch.”
In the Explorer, I hail my on-duty officer, Chuck Skidmore, aka “Skid,” as I head out of town. “What’s your twenty?”
“I’m ten-twenty-three the covered bridge, Chief,” he tells me, letting me know he has arrived on scene. “On my way down to the path that runs along the creek.”
I’m familiar with the area. Everyone who grew up in Painters Mill—whether they’re Amish or English—knows Painters Creek and the historical covered bridge that spans it.
When you’re a kid, it’s a good place to swim or fish.
When you’re a teenager, it’s the perfect spot for some illicit drinking or maybe to partake in some graffiti art.
“Any sign of our ten-thirty-one?” I say, using the ten code for “missing person.” The last thing we need at this point is for someone listening to their police scanner to start talking about a missing kid.
“Negative.”
“I’m ten-seventy-six as soon as I talk to the Kuhns,” I tell him, letting him know I’m en route.
I’m racking the mike when the black mass of a buggy crests a hill and comes at me out of nowhere.
The glare of my headlights reveals the silhouette of a horse.
Moving fast. Left of center. No lights or reflective signage.
I stomp the brake. The tires bark as they lock.
I steer into the skid, barely avoid going into a spin.
I hit gravel on the shoulder and slide to an abrupt stop.
Gripping the wheel with both hands, I take a moment to settle. “Shit.” I flip on my overheads, grab my Maglite, then swing open the door and step out.
Dust billows in the glare of my headlights. The buggy is just ten feet away, stopped. The horse stomps and snorts, its head high, breaths puffing out in great white clouds.
Beyond, I see the silhouette of an Amish woman as she climbs down from the seat. Black cape. Winter bonnet over her kapp. “Chief Burkholder!” She runs toward me, carrying some sort of bundle, a toddler latched on to her other hand.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask.
“Ja.” She spits out the word on a breath.
My temper simmers, but she looks panicked, so I keep my voice level. “Dich voahra vayk shteik—” You were driving too fast.
“I was … imma dumla.” In a hurry. She chokes out the words on a breath. “Mei sohn. Aaron. Miah kann net finna eem.” My son. We can’t find him. “I was on my way to see you.”
She’s standing a couple of feet away, her entire body vibrating, and I realize the bundle in her arms is a baby.
I see movement behind her, watch as two more children scramble down from the buggy.
Girls in long, dark dresses and winter bonnets.
One without a coat, as if they’d left in a rush.
They’re Swartzentruber Amish, an Old Order sect that holds on to tradition with an iron fist.
“You’re Susie Kuhns?” I ask.
“Ja.” She cocks her head. “How did you—”
I tell her about the Dennisons and their missing son. “Are Aaron and Kevin friends?” I ask.
She nods. “They go fishing every so often.”
“What’s your husband’s name?”
“Levi.”
I take out my notebook and write down the name. “Where is he?”
“Looking for Aaron. Down by the creek. Our neighbor, too.” She shakes her head. “He told me not to drive into town to talk to you, but I think we need your help.”
“You did the right thing.”
Over the next minutes, I cover the same ground I covered with Jeff and Monica Dennison. Aaron is a year older than Kevin. He’s a few inches taller. Thin. Wearing a flat-brimmed hat. Blue shirt with suspenders. Black coat.
“Last time I saw him was at eight o’clock this morning,” the Amish woman recounts. “He fed the cows, grabbed his fishing pole, and left to meet Kevin.”
I look down at the two little girls standing next to her.
The toddler clutches a faceless doll, which is typical for the Amish due to their dislike of graven images.
She’s shivering, little teeth chattering, her cheeks flushed with cold.
The other suckles her thumb, clinging to her mamm’s coat with her fist.
“Mrs. Kuhns, I know you’re worried about your son, but I almost didn’t see you when you came over that hill.
” I motion toward the buggy. “You don’t have reflective signage on that buggy.
It’s not safe for you to be on the road after dark, especially with all those kids.
Why don’t you take these children home and wait for Aaron?
I’ll go down to the creek with a few of my officers and we’ll search for your son. ”
Hugging the baby tightly against her, the Amish woman blinks back tears. “Danki, Chief Burkholder. Danki.”
The Tuscarawas covered bridge has seen a lot of things in the one hundred years it’s spanned Painters Creek.
Tonight, the wooden structure is lit up with the flashing lights of Skid’s cruiser.
As I pull up behind him, I spot a buggy parked on the gravel shoulder a few yards away, telling me Levi Kuhns and his neighbor have already arrived.
I pick up my mike and hail Skid. “What’s your twenty?”
“A hundred yards south of the bridge, Chief. There’s a path, but it’s dark as a damn cave in these woods.”
The beam of my Maglite leads the way as I slide down the bank to the path that parallels the creek. It’s so quiet I can hear the water trickle over rock where the stream narrows. A quarter mile in, I catch a glimpse of Skid’s flashlight beam.
I find him standing on the bank, shining the beam on the water twenty feet away. “Anything?” I ask.
“Nada.”
We’re standing at the place where the creek cuts into the bank as it veers east. I motion ahead. “Icebox is a quarter mile north,” I tell him.
We start in that direction, our beams sweeping from side to side.
“A lot of kids come out here in the summer.” He ducks to avoid a branch reaching for his cap. “Caught Councilwoman Fourman’s daughter out here smoking dope with her boyfriend.”
“I don’t recall seeing a report on that.”
“Dude ate the roach, so I cut them loose.”
A few minutes later, the path widens. The trees along the creek to my right fall away, revealing a large pool of water that shimmers black in the light of our beams. I’m on my way to the bank when I spot the footprint and, just a few feet ahead, the remnants of a campfire.
“Someone’s been here.”
He approaches and we shine our lights on the print. “Waffle sole,” he says. “Size nine or ten, maybe.”
The campfire ashes smolder. I hold my hand over a chunk of burned wood. “Still warm.”
In tandem we set our beams on the ground and split up, looking for clues. I’ve gone just a few feet when a spot in the dirt gives me pause. I bend for a closer look. It’s dark and wet. A chill sweeps down my spine. Blood.
I call out for Skid. “I got blood.”
He comes up beside me. His beam joins mine. A red-black pool the size of a quarter glitters in the light. A dozen or so smaller droplets surround it. “Not too much,” he murmurs.
“Too much for it to be from a fish, even if they cleaned it. No scales.” I straighten and run my beam in a circle. “Could be from a bloody nose.”
“Maybe they got in a fight.” He looks at me and smiles. “That’s boys for you.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “No sign of a struggle.”
“Any chance they were hunting?” he asks. “Got a rabbit or something?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Both sets of parents told me they were fishing.”
“No gear.”
“Could have moved on, taken it with them.”
His beam stops on disturbed ground. “Definitely two sets of prints.”
I track a set of prints that take me deeper into the woods.
A few yards in, the distance between the tracks increases.
The heel imprint is deeper. I’m no tracker, but it looks as if someone had been running.
I shine my light ahead, and another layer of concern settles over the first. There’s a backpack on the ground.